Fanny

"A fairy visionOf some gay creatures of the element,That in the colors of the rainbow live,And play in the plighted clouds."

ANNY was younger once than she is now,And prettier of course; I do not meanTo say that there are wrinkles on her brow;Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shyAbout her age, and Heaven forbid that I

Should get myself in trouble by revealingA secret of this sort; I have too longLoved pretty women with a poet's feeling,And when a boy, in day-dream and in song,Have knelt me down and worshipped them: alas!They never thanked me for't—but let that pass.

I've felt full many a heartache in my day,At the mere rustling of a muslin gown,And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say,While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown.They say her smiles are sunbeams—it may be—But never a sunbeam would she throw on me.

But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze onFor half an hour, without the slightest harm;E'en when she wore her smiling summer face onThere was but little danger, and the charmThat youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell:Hers is a sad, sad tale—'tis mine its woes to tell.

Her father kept, some fifteen years ago,A retail dry-good shop in Chatham Street,And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow,Till, having mustered wherewithal to meetThe gaze of the great world, he breathed the airOf Pearl Street—and "set up" in Hanover Square.

Money is power, 'tis said—I never tried;I'm but a poet—and bank-notes to me

Are curiosities, as closely eyed,Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be,Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table,Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel.

But he I sing of well has known and feltThat money hath a power and a dominion;For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt,No one would give a sous for his opinion.And though his neighbours were extremely civil,Yet, on the whole, they thought him—a poor devil.

A decent kind of person; one whose headWas not of brains particularly full;It was not known that he had ever saidAny thing worth repeating—'twas a dull,Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would callA "cabbage head"—but he excelled them all

In that most noble of the sciences,The art of making money; and he foundThe zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,As he grew richer; till upon the groundOf Pearl Street, treading proudly in the mightAnd majesty of wealth, a sudden light

Flashed like the midnight lightning on the eyesOf all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,And genius, clear, and countless as the dyesUpon the peacock's plumage; taste refined,Wisdom and wit, were his—perhaps much more—'Twas strange they had not found it out before.

In this quick transformation, it is trueThat cash had no small share; but there were stillSome other causes, which then gave a newImpulse to head and heart, and joined to fillHis brain with knowledge; for there first he metThe editor of the New-York Gazette—

The sapient Mr. Lang. The world of himKnows much, yet not one-half so much as heKnows of the world. Up to its very brimThe goblet of his mind is sparkling freeWith lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen,In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen

This modern Solomon, the Israelite,Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her.

He would have hanged himself for very spite,And she, blessed woman, might have had the honorOf some neat "paragraphs"—worth all the laysThat Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise.

Her star arose too soon; but that which swayedTh' ascendant at our merchant's natal hourWas bright with better destiny—its aidLed him to pluck within the classic bowerOf bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge,And Lang supplied the loss of school and college.

For there he learned the news some minutes soonerThan others could; and to distinguish wellThe different signals, whether ship or schooner,Hoisted at Staten Island; and to tellThe change of wind, and of his neighbor's fortunes,And, best of all—he there learned self-importance.

Nor were these all the advantages derivedFrom change of scene; for near his domicilHe of the pair of polished lamps then lived,And in my hero's promenades, at will,Could he behold them burning—and their flameKindled within his breast the love of fame—

And politics, and country; the pure glowOf patriot ardor, and the consciousnessThat talents such as his might well bestowA lustre on the city; she would blessHis name; and that some service should be done her,He pledged "life, fortune, and his sacred honor."

And when the sounds of music and of mirth,Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there,Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearthFanny and he were seated—he would dareTo whisper fondly that the time might comeWhen he and his could give as brilliant routs at home.

And oft would Fanny near that mansion linger,When the cold winter moon was high in heaven,And trace out, by the aid of Fancy's finger,Cards for some future party, to be givenWhen she in turn should be a belle, and theyHad lived their little hour, and passed away.

There are some happy moments in this loneAnd desolate world of ours, that well repay

The toil of struggling through it, and atoneFor many a long, sad night and weary day.They come upon the mind like some wild airOf distant music, when we know not where,

Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power,Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home,Oft dreamed of, beckons near—its rose-wreathed bower,And cloudless skies before us: we becomeChanged on the instant—all gold leaf and gilding;This is, in vulgar phrase, called "castle building."

But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon; 'tis vainTo bid them linger longer, or to askOn what day they intend to call again;And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task,Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure,To find some means to summon them at pleasure.

There certainly are powers of doing this,In some degree at least—for instance, drinking.Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss,And keep the head a little time from thinking

Of cares or creditors—the best wine in townYou'll get from Lynch—the cash must be paid down.

But if you are a bachelor, like me,And spurn all chains, even though made of roses,I'd recommend cigars—there is a freeAnd happy spirit, that, unseen, reposesOn the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you,When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you.

Dear to the exile is his native land,In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:Dear to the broker is a note of hand,Collaterally secured—the polar starIs dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price;"

But dearer far to me each fairy minuteSpent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;There is an airy web of magic in it,As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief,Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of Sorrow,The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud tomorrow.

And these are innocent thoughts—a man may sitUpon a bright throne of his own creation:Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flitAround the many, whose exalted stationHas been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on,Just for the rhyme's sake—instance Mr. Clinton.

He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathesThe mountain air at last; but there are othersWho strove, like him, to win the glittering wreathsOf power, his early partisans and brothers,That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung,Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung.

'Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloonOf party; and they hoped, when it arose,To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon,Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes.Alas! like Guillé's car, it soared without them,And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them.

Though Fanny's moonlight dreams were sweet as thoseI've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;

Hers were not "castles in the air" that roseBased upon nothing; for her sire was able,As well she knew, to "buy out" the one-halfOf Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff

Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout,From dandy coachmen, whose "exquisite" grinAnd "ruffian" lounge flash brilliantly without,Down to their brother dandies ranged within,Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on,And sapient as the oysters they are fed on.

And Rumor (she's a famous liar, yet'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her)Had whispered he was rich, and all he metIn Wall Street, nodded, smiled, and "tipped the beaver;"All,—from Mr. Gelston, the collector,Down to the broker, and the bank director.

A few brief years passed over, and his rankAmong the worthies of that street was fixed;He had become director of a bank,And six insurance offices, and mixed

Familiarly, as one among his peers,With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers,

Brokers of all grades—stock and pawn—and JewsOf all religions, who at noonday form,On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral museDelights in, where the heart is pure and warm,And each exerts his intellectual forceTo cheat his neighbor—legally, of course.

And there he shone a planetary star,Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beamsFrom his were borrowed. The simile is not farFrom truth—for many bosom friends, it seems,Did borrow of him, and sometimes forgetTo pay—indeed, they have not paid him yet.

But these he deemed as trifles, when each mouthWas open in his praise, and plaudits roseUpon his willing ear, "like the sweet southUpon a bank of violets," from thoseWho knew his talents, virtues, and so forth;That is—knew how much money he was worth.

Alas! poor human nature; had he beenBut satisfied with this, his golden daysTheir setting hour of darkness had not seen,And he might still (in the mercantile phrase)Be living "in good order and condition;"But he was ruined by that jade Ambition,

"That last infirmity of noble minds,"Whose spell, like whiskey, your true patriot liquor,To politics the lofty hearts inclinesOf all, from Clinton down to the bill-stickerOf a ward-meeting. She came slyly creepingTo his bedside, where he lay snug and sleeping.

Her brow was turbaned with a bucktail wreath,A broach of terrapin her bosom wore,Tompkins's letter was just seen beneathHer arm, and in her hand on high she boreA National Advocate—Pell's polite ReviewLay at her feet—'twas pommelled black and blue.

She was in fashion's elegant undress,Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hair

Was all "en papillotes," each auburn tressPrettily pinned apart. You well might swearShe was no beauty; yet, when "made up" readyFor visiters, 'twas quite another lady.

Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion,Manners have changed as well as moons; and heWould fret himself once more into a passion,Should he return (which heaven forbid!) and see,How strangely from his standard dictionary,The meaning of some words is made to vary.

For instance, an undress at present meansThe wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;Or any thing you please, in short, that screensThe face, and hides the form from top to toe;Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm—'Tis worn in summer, when the weather's warm.

But a full dress is for a winter's night.The most genteel is made of "woven air;"That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light,Which Lady Morgan's Ida used to wear.And ladies, this aërial manner dressed in,Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.

But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying,"Dèshabillée"—his bedside tripping near,And, gently on his nose her fingers laying,She roared out "Tammany!" in his frighted ear.The potent word awoke him from his nap,And then she vanished, whispering verbum sap.

The last words were beyond his comprehension,For he had left off schooling, ere the GreekOr Latin classics claimed his mind's attention:Besides, he often had been heard to speakContemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.

We owe the ancients something. You have readTheir works, no doubt—at least in a translation;Yet there was argument in what he said,I scorn equivocation or evasion,And own it must, in candor, be confessed,They were an ignorant set of men at best.

'Twas their misfortune to be born too soonBy centuries, and in the wrong place too;

They never saw a steamboat, or balloon,Velocipede, or Quarterly Review;Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches,Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's Speeches.

In short, in every thing we far outshine them,—Art, science, taste, and talent; and a strollThrough this enlightened city would refine themMore than ten years hard study of the wholeTheir genius has produced of rich and rare—God bless the Corporation and the Mayor!

In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master,Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks;We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster,The Witch of Endor in the best of wax,Besides the head of Franklin on the roofOf Mr. Lang, both jest and weather proof.

And on our City Hall a Justice stands;A neater form was never made of board,Holding majestically in her handsA pair of steelyards and a wooden sword;And looking down with complaisant civility—Emblem of dignity and durability.

In painting, we have Trumbull's proud chef d'œuvre,Blending in one the funny and the fine:His "Independence" will endure for ever,And so will Mr. Allen's lottery-sign;And all that grace the Academy of Arts,From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's.

In architecture, our unrivalled skillCullen's magnesian shop has loudly spokenTo an admiring world; and better stillIs Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken.In music, we've the Euterpian Society,And amateurs, a wonderful variety.

In physic, we have Francis and McNeven,Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;And Quackenboss and others, who from heavenWere rained upon us in a shower of pills;They'd beat the deathless Æsculapius hollow,And make a starveling druggist of Apollo.

And who, that ever slumbered at the Forum,But owns the first of orators we claim:

Cicero would have bowed the knee before 'em—And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham.Compared with him, their Justins and QuintilliansHad dwindled into second-rate civilians.

For purity and chastity of style,There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Horne and Waite.For penetration deep, and learned toil,And all that stamps an author truly great,Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes? a treasureFor any man of patience and of leisure.

Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap pageHe, in his time, hath written, and moreover(What few will do in this degenerate age)Hath read his own works, as you may discoverBy counting his quotations from himself—You'll find the books on any auction shelf.

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meantTo claim this Oxford scholar as our own:That he was shipped off here to representHer literature among us, is well known;And none could better fill the lofty stationOf Learning's envoy from the British nation.

We fondly hope that he will be respectedAt home, and soon obtain a place or pension.We should regret to see him live neglected,Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention;Who paid us friendly visits to abuseOur country, and find food for the reviews.

But to return.—The Heliconian watersAre sparkling in their native fount no more,And after years of wandering, the nine daughtersOf poetry have found upon our shoreA happier home, and on their sacred shrinesGlow in immortal ink, the polished lines

Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott—Names hallowed by their reader's sweetest smile;And who that reads at all has read them not?"That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"Homer, was well enough; but would he everHave written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.

Alas! for Paulding—I regret to seeIn such a stanza one whose giant powers,

Seen in their native element, will beKnown to a future age, the pride of ours.There is none breathing who can better wieldThe battle-axe of satire. On its field

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won,Long be its laurel green around his brow!It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of funAnd jesting; but for once I'm serious now.Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews?The muse has damned him—let him damn the muse.

But to return once more: the ancients foughtSome tolerable battles. MarathonIs still a theme for high and holy thought,And many a poet's lay. We linger onThe page that tells us of the brave and free,And reverence thy name, unmatched Thermopylæ.

And there were spirited troops in other days—The Roman legion and the Spartan band,And Swartwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays—Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand,Or swore, at least, to meet them undismayed;Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade

Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,The New York State Militia. From Bellevue,E'en to the Battery flag-staff, the proud storyOf their manœuvres at the last reviewHas rung; and Clinton's "order" told afarHe never led a better corps to war.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricksOf Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren?The first with cards, the last in politics,A conjuror's fame for years have been securing.And who would now the Athenian dramas read,When he can get "Wall Street," by Mr. Mead.

I might say much about our lettered men,Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who composeOur learned societies—but here my penStops short; for they themselves, the rumor goes,The exclusive privilege by patent claim,Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remainsTo bless the hour the Corporation took it

Into their heads to give the rich in brainsThe worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket,Once "the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom,Sacred to Scudder's shells and Dr. Griscom.

But whither am I wandering? The esteemI bear "this fair city of the heart,"To me a dear enthusiastic theme,Has forced me, all unconsciously, to partToo long from him, the hero of my story.Where was he?—waking from his dream of glory.

And she, the lady of his dream, had fled,And left him somewhat puzzled and confused.He understood, however, half she said;And that is quite as much as we are usedTo comprehend, or fancy worth repeating,In speeches heard at any public meeting.

And the next evening found him at the Hall;There he was welcomed by the cordial hand,And met the warm and friendly grasp of allWho take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand,A ring, as in a boxing-match, procuring,To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren.

'Twas a propitious moment; for a whileThe waves of party were at rest. UponEach complacent brow was gay good-humor's smile:And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun,And high amid the circle, in great glee,Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee.

His jokes excelled the rest, and oft he sangSongs, patriotic, as in duty bound.He had a little of the "nasal twangHeard at conventicle;" but yet you foundIn him a dash of purity and brightness,That spoke the man of taste and of politeness.

For he had been, it seems, the bosom friendOf England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.They met when he, the bard, came here to lendHis mirth and music to this favorite shore;For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a featherInstinctively will flock and fly together."

The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing,"Lake of the Dismal Swamp!" that poet's name;

And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathingAround "Cohoes," are brightened by his fame.And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles,Her million lilies, and her thousand isles.

We hear his music in her oarsmen's lay,And where her church-bells "toll the evening chime;"Yet when to him the grateful heart would payIts homage, now, and in all coming time,Up springs a doubtful question whether weOwe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee.

Together oft they wandered—many a spotNow consecrated, as the minstrel's theme,By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot,Their mutual feet have trod; and when the streamOf thought and feeling flowed in mutual speech,'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.

But, from the following song, it would appearThat he of Erin from the sachem tookThe model of his "Bower of Bendemeer,"One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh;

'Tis to be hoped that in his next edition,This, the original, will find admission.

SONG.

There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall,And the bucktails are swigging it all the night long;In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to callFor a seat and cigar, 'mid the jovial throng.

That beer and those bucktails I never forget;But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all,I think, is the porter-cask foaming there yet?Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall?

No! the porter was out long before it was stale,But some blossoms on many a nose brightly shone,And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale,Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone.

How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he dies,Is a question of moment to me and to all;For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall.

SONG.

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,And the nightingale sings round it all the night long;In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dreamTo sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget;But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year,I think, is the nightingale singing there yet?Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No! the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave,But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone;And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it many a year;Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

For many months my hero ne'er neglectedTo take his ramble there, and soon found out,In much less time than one could have expected,What 'twas they all were quarrelling about.

He learned the party countersigns by rote,And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.

He learned that Clinton became GovernorSomehow by chance, when we were all asleep;That he had neither sense, nor talent, norAny good quality, and would not keepHis place an hour after the next election—So powerful was the voice of disaffection:

That he was a mere puppet made to playA thousand tricks, while Spencer touched the springs—Spencer, the mighty Warwick of his day,"That setter up, and puller down of kings,"Aided by Miller, Pell, and Doctor Graham,And other men of equal worth and fame.

And that he'd set the people at defiance,By placing knaves and fools in public stations;And that his works in literature and scienceWere but a schoolboy's web of misquotations;And that he'd quoted from the devil even—"Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven."

To these authentic facts each bucktail swore;But Clinton's friends averred, in contradiction,They were but fables, told by Mr. Noah,Who had a privilege to deal in fiction,Because he'd written travels, and a melo-Drama; and was, withal, a pleasant fellow.

And they declared that Tompkins was no betterThan he should be; that he had borrowed money,And paid it—not in cash—but with a letter;And though some trifling service he had done, heStill wanted spirit, energy, and fire;And was disliked by—Mr. McIntyre.

In short, each one with whom in conversationHe joined, contrived to give him different viewsOf men and measures; and the informationWhich he obtained, but aided to confuseHis brain. At best, 'twas never very clear;And now 'twas turned with politics and beer.

And he was puffed, and flattered, and caressedBy all, till he sincerely thought that Nature

Had formed him for an alderman at least—Perhaps, a member of the Legislature;And that he had the talents, ten times over,Of Henry Meigs, or Peter H. Wendover.

The man was mad, 'tis plain, and merits pity,Or he had never dared, in such a tone,To speak of two great persons, whom the cityWith pride and pleasure points to as her own—Men wise in council, brilliant in debate,"The expectancy and rose of the fair state."

The one—for a pure style and classic manner,Is—Mr. Sachem Mooney far before;The other, in his speech about the banner,Spell-bound his audience until they sworeThat such a speech was never heard till then,And never would be—till he spoke again.

Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of oursTo think of rivalling these, I must allowThat still the man had talents; and the powersOf his capacious intellect were nowImproved by foreign travel, and by reading,And at the Hall he'd learned, of course, good breeding.

He had read the newspapers with great attention,Advertisements and all; and Riley's bookOf travels—valued for its rich invention;And Day and Turner's Price Current; and tookThe Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews;And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuse

His leisure hours with classic tale and story,Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street,And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository;And Mitchill's scientific works complete,With other standard books of modern days,Lay on his table, covered with green baize.

His travels had extended to Bath races;And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen,And Harlem Heights; and many other places,By sea and land, had visited; and been,In a steamboat of the Vice President's,To Staten Island once—for fifty cents.

And he had dined, by special invitation,On turtle, with "the party" at Hoboken;

And thanked them for his card in an oration,Declared to be the shortest ever spoken.And he had strolled one day o'er Weehawk hill:A day worth all the rest—he recollects it still.

Weehawken!—In thy mountain scenery yet,All we adore of Nature, in her wildAnd frolic hour of infancy, is met;And never has a summer's morning smiledUpon a lovelier scene, than the full eyeOf the enthusiast revels on—when high

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbsO'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,And knows that sense of danger which sublimesThe breathless moment—when his daring stepIs on the verge of the cliff, and he can hearThe low dash of the wave with startled ear—

Like the death-music of his coming doom,And clings to the green turf with desperate force,As the heart clings to life; and when resumeThe currents in his veins their wonted course,There lingers a deep feeling—like the moanOf wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view,Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him;Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blueOf summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him—The city bright below; and far away,Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,And banners floating in the sunny air;And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,Green isle, and circling shore, are blended thereIn wild reality. When life is old,And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there oneWhose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's daysOf happiness were passed beneath that sun,That in his manhood's prime can calmly gazeUpon that bay, or on that mountain stand,Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

"This may be poetry, for aught I know,"Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning

Over my shoulder as I wrote; "althoughI can't exactly comprehend its meaning.For my part, I have long been a petitionerTo Mr. John McComb, the Street Commissioner—

"That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay itHandsomely out in avenue and square;Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it(As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere);Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel—'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel."

"The devil take you and John McComb," said I;"Lang, in its praise, has penned one paragraph,And promised me another. I defy,With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh;And half believe that Paulding, on this theme,Might be a poet—strange as it may seem."

For even our traveller felt, when home returningFrom that day's tour, as on the deck he stood,The fire of poetry within him burning;"Albeit unused to the rhyming mood;"And with a pencil on his knee he wroteThe following flaming lines

TO THE HORSEBOAT.

1.

Away—o'er the wave to the home we are seeking,Bark of my hope! ere the evening be gone;There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking;There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan.

2.

Though blue and bright are the heavens above me,And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea;And hearts I love, and hearts that love me,Are beating beside me merrily:

3.

Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses,Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast;Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes,Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past—

4.

There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting(As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky,On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting,And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh.

5.

Another hour—and the death-word is given,Another hour—and his lightnings are here;Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of evenIs lost in the tempest, our home will be near.

6.

Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streamingIn the shadowy light, like a shooting-star;Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming,In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.

7.

And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe theeA being with life and its best feelings warm;And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee,Blessed spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm.

But where is Fanny? She has long been thrownWhere cheeks and roses wither—in the shade.The age of chivalry, you know, is gone;And although, as I once before have said,I love a pretty face to adoration,Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation,

As a true dandy of the modern schools.One hates to be old-fashioned; it would beA violation of the latest rules,To treat the sex with too much courtesy.'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glowsIn all her diamond lustre, that the beaux

Of these enlightened days at evening crowd,Where Fashion welcomes in her rooms of lightThat "dignified obedience; that proudSubmission," which, in times of yore, the knightGave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal,And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.

To lounge in graceful attitudes—be staredUpon, the while, by every fair one's eye,And stare one's self, in turn; to be preparedTo dart upon the trays, as swiftly byThe dexterous Simon bears them, and to takeOne's share at least of coffee, cream, and cake,

Is now to be "the ton." The pouting lip,And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl,

Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip,Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl,And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish,Must now be disregarded. One must banish

Those antiquated feelings, that belongTo feudal manners and a barbarous age.Time was—when woman "poured her soul" in song,That all was hushed around. 'Tis now "the rage"To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle,A signal-note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle.

And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny waitMy leisure. She had changed, as you will see, asMuch as her worthy sire, and made as greatProficiency in taste and high ideas.The careless smile of other days was gone,And every gesture spoke "qu'en dira-t-on?"

She long had known that in her father's coffers,And also to his credit in the banks,There was some cash; and therefore all the offersMade her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks,Of heart and hand, had spurned, as far beneathOne whose high destiny it was to breathe,

Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park Place,And reign a fairy queen in fairy land;Display in the gay dance her form of grace,Or touch with rounded arm and gloveless hand,Harp or piano.—Madame CatilaniForgot awhile, and every eye on Fanny.

And in anticipation of that hour,Her star of hope, her paradise of thought,She'd had as many masters as the powerOf riches could bestow; and had been taughtThe thousand nameless graces that adornThe daughters of the wealthy and high born.

She had been noticed at some public places(The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale),For hers was one of those attractive faces,That when you gaze upon them, never failTo bid you look again; there was a beam,A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem

A little like effrontery; and yetThe lady meant no harm; her only aim

Was but to be admired by all she met,And the free homage of the heart to claim;And if she showed too plainly this intention,Others have done the same—'twas not of her invention.

She shone at every concert; where are boughtTickets by all who wish them, for a dollar;She patronised the Theatre, and thoughtThat Wallack looked extremely well in Rolla;She fell in love, as all the ladies do,With Mr. Simpson—talked as loudly, too,

As any beauty of the highest grade,To the gay circle in the box beside her;And when the pit—half vexed and half afraid,With looks of smothered indignation eyed her,She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em,Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum.

And though by no means a bas bleu, she hadFor literature a most becoming passion;Had skimmed the latest novels, good and bad,And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion;And Doctor Chalmers' sermons, of a Sunday;And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi.

She was among the first and warmest patronsOf Griscom's conversaziones whereIn rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons,On science bent, assemble; to prepareThemselves for acting well, in life, their partAs wives and mothers. There she learned by heart

Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown.Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics,Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon,Chlorine, and iodine, and aërostatics;Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire;And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!

In all the modern languages she wasExceedingly well-versed; and had devoted,To their attainment, far more time than has,By the best teachers, lately been allotted;For she had taken lessons, twice a week,For a full month in each; and she could speak

French and Italian, equally as wellAs Chinese, Portuguese, or German; and,

What is still more surprising, she could spellMost of our longest English words off hand;Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish,And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish.

She sang divinely: and in "Love's young dream"And "Fanny dearest," and "The soldier's bride;"And every song, whose dear delightful theme,Is "Love, still love," had oft till midnight triedHer finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of sound,Waking the very watchmen far around.

For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal toMadame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus;She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to,If kneeling were in fashion; or if youWere wearied of your duns and single life,And wanted a few thousands and a wife.

************

"There was a suond of revelry by night;"Broadway was thronged with coaches, and withinA mansion of the best of brick, the brightAnd eloquent eyes of beauty bade beginThe dance; and music's tones swelled wild and high,And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy.

For many a week, the note of preparationHad sounded through all circles far and near;And some five hundred cards of invitationBade beau and belle in full costume appear;There was a most magnificent variety,All quite select, and of the first society.

That is to say—the rich and the well-bred,The arbiters of fashion and gentility,In different grades of splendor, from the headDown to the very toe of our nobility:Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyesOr handsome fortunes—learned men, and wise

Statesmen, and officers of the militia—In short, the "first society"—a phrase,

Which you may understand as best may fit you;Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days,Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high,With horsehair fiddle-bows and teeth of ivory.

The carpets were rolled up the day before,And, with a breath, two rooms became but one,Like man and wife—and, on the polished floor,Chalk in the artists' plastic hand had doneAll that chalk could do—in young Eden's bowersThey seemed to tread, and their feet pressed on flowers.

And when the thousand lights of spermacetiStreamed like a shower of sunbeams—and free tressesWild as the heads that waved them—and a prettyCollection of the latest Paris dressesWandered about the rooms like things divine,It was, as I was told, extremely fine.

The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating,Brought many who were tired of self and home;And some were there in the high hope of meetingThe lady of their bosom's love—and someTo study that deep science, how to please,And manners in high life, and high-souled courtesies.

And he, the hero of the night was there,In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue.Taste was conspicuous in his powdered hair,And in his frequent jeux de mots, that drewPeals of applauses from the listeners round,Who were delighted—as in duty bound.

'Twas Fanny's father—Fanny near him stood,Her power, resistless—and her wish, command;And Hope's young promises were all made good;"She reigned a fairy queen in fairy land;"Her dream of infancy a dream no more,And then how beautiful the dress she wore!

Ambition with the sire had kept her word.He had the rose, no matter for its thorn,And he seemed happy as a summer bird,Careering on wet wing to meet the morn.Some said there was a cloud upon his brow;It might be—but we'll not discuss that now.

I left him making rhymes while crossing o'erThe broad and perilous wave of the North River.

He bade adieu, when safely on the shore,To poetry—and, as he thought, forever.That night his dream (if after deeds make knownOur plans in sleep) was an enchanting one.

He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber,And walked Broadway, enraptured the next day;Purchased a house there—I've forgot the number—And signed a mortgage and a bond, for pay.Gave, in the slang phrase, Pearl Street the go-by,And cut, for several months, St. Tammany.

Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all completed,He bought a coach and half a dozen horses(The bill's at Lawrence's—not yet receipted—You'll find the amount upon his list of losses),Then filled his rooms with servants, and whateverIs necessary for a "genteel liver."

This last removal fixed him: every stainWas blotted from his "household coat," and heNow "showed the world he was a gentleman,"And, what is better, could afford to be;His step was loftier than it was of old,His laugh less frequent, and his manner told

What lovers call "unutterable things"—That sort of dignity was in his mienWhich awes the gazer into ice, and bringsTo recollection some great man we've seen,The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown,'Twas shrewdly guessed, would knock Judge Skinner down.

And for "Resources," both of purse and head,He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen;Believed devoutly all his flatterers said,And deemed himself a Crœsus among men;Spread to the liberal air his silken sails,And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales.

He mingled now with those within whose veinsThe blood ran pure—the magnates of the land—Hailed them as his companions and his friends,And lent them money and his note of hand.In every institution, whose proud aimIs public good alone, he soon became

A man of consequence and notoriety;His name, with the addition of esquire,

Stood high upon the list of each society,Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fireOf science, agriculture, art, and learning,Keep on our country's altars bright and burning.

At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day,With men of taste and judgment like his own,And played "first fiddle" in that orchestraOf literary worthies—and the toneOf his mind's music by the listeners caught,Is traced among them still in language and in thought.

He once made the Lyceum a choice presentOf muscle-shells picked up at Rockaway;And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasantDiscourse about them in the streets that day,Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas"Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas."

He was a trustee of a Savings Bank,And lectured soundly every evil-doer,Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank,And sixpence every Sunday to the poor;He was a wit, in the pun-making line—Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine.

But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle,With eagle eye and step that never faltered,The busy tongue of scandal dared to tellThat cash was scarce with him, and credit altered;And while he stood the envy of beholders,The Bank Directors grinned, and shrugged their shoulders.

And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute,Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy,Depend upon it there is something in it;For whether born of wisdom or of folly,Suspicion is a being whose fell powerBlights every thing it touches, fruit and flower.

Some friends (they were his creditors) once hintedAbout retrenchment and a day of doom;He thanked them, as no doubt they kindly meant it,And made this speech when they had left the room:"Of all the curses upon mortals sent,One's creditors are the most impudent;

"Now I am one who knows what he is doing,And suits exactly to his means his ends;

How can a man be in the path to ruin,When all the brokers are his bosom friends?Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter,These rascals throw a bucket of cold water!

"They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face,Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup,Poison the very wells of life—and placeWhitechapel needles, with their sharp points up,Even in the softest feather bed that e'erWas manufactured by upholsterer."

This said—he journeyed "at his own sweet will,"Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on;But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her stillSmall voice," would whisper, something must be done;He asked advice of Fanny, and the maidPromptly and duteously lent her aid.

She told him, with that readiness of mindAnd quickness of perception which belongExclusively to gentle womankind,That to submit to slanderers was wrong,And the best plan to silence and admonish them,Would be to give "a party"—and astonish them.

The hint was taken—and the party given;And Fanny, as I said some pages since,Was there in power and loveliness that even,And he, her sire, demeaned him like a prince,And all was joy—it looked a festival,Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles recall.

But Fortune, like some others of her sex,Delights in tantalizing and tormenting;One day we feed upon their smiles—the nextIs spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting.(If in the last four lines the author lies,He's always ready to apologize.)

Eve never walked in Paradise more pureThan on that morn when Satan played the devil,With her and all her race. A love-sick wooerNe'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil,Than Cleopatra was to AntonyThe day she left him on the Ionian sea.

The serpent—loveliest in his coilèd ring,With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies

The tints of the rainbow—bears upon his stingThe deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin diesIts hues are brightest. Like an infant's breathAre tropic winds before the voice of death

Is heard upon the waters, summoningThe midnight earthquake from its sleep of yearsTo do its task of woe. The clouds that flingThe lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears;The pantings of the warrior's heart are proudUpon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud;

The son is loveliest as he sinks to rest;The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast;The swan's last song is sweetest—and the bestOf Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last.And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes,Closed with a crash, and ushered in—hard times.

St. Paul's tolled one—and fifteen minutes afterDown came, by accident, a chandelier;The mansion tottered from the floor to rafter!Up rose the cry of agony and fear!And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering,Beyond the power of writing or of uttering.

The company departed, and neglectedTo say good-by—the father stormed and swore—The fiddlers grinned—the daughter looked dejected—The flowers had vanished from the polished floor,And both betook them to their sleepless beds,With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads.

The desolate relief of free complainingCame with the morn, and with it came bad weather;The wind was east-northeast, and it was rainingThroughout that day, which, take it altogether,Was one whose memory clings to us through life,Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife.

That evening, with a most important faceAnd dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful,A notary came—sad things had taken place;My hero had forgot to "do the needful;"A note (amount not stated), with his name on't,Was left unpaid—in short, he had "stopped payment."

I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones(Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime);

And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunesAre bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme:Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protestHis notes remain—the wise can guess the rest.

************

For two whole days they were the common talk;The party, and the failure, and all that,The theme of loungers in their morning walk,Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat.The third, some newer wonder came to blot them,And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them.

Anxious, however, something to discover,I passed their house—the shutters were all closed;The song of knocker and of bell was over;Upon the steps two chimney-sweeps reposed;And on the door my dazzled eyebeam metThese cabalistic words—"this house to let."

They live now, like chameleons, upon airAnd hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes;That they removed, is clear, but when or whereNone knew. The curious reader, if he wishes,May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells,The marble dome—the popular rumor tells;

But of the dwelling of the proud and poor,From their own lips the world will never knowWhen better days are gone—it is secureBeyond all other mysteries here below,Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age,When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage.

Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began;'Tis proper and polite her name should end it;If, in my story of her woes, or planOr moral can be traced, 'twas not intended;And if I've wronged her, I can only tell herI'm sorry for it—so is my bookseller.

I met her yesterday—her eyes were wet—She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading

The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette,McIntyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;"She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one,And, if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one.

Her father sent to Albany a prayerFor office, told how Fortune had abused him,And modestly requested to be Mayor—The Council very civilly refused him;Because, however much they might desire it,The "public good," it seems, did not require it.

Some evenings since, he took a lonely strollAlong Broadway, scene of past joys and evils;He felt that withering bitterness of soul,Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;"And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius,Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius,

And envying the loud playfulness and mirthOf those who passed him, gay in youth and hope,He took at Jupiter a shilling's worthOf gazing, through the showman's telescope;

Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears—He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.

He was mistaken, it was no such thing,'Twas Yankee Doodle played by Scudder's band:He muttered, as he lingered listening,Something of freedom and our happy land;Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast,This sentimental song—his saddest, and his last:

SONG.

1.

Young thoughts have music in them, loveAnd happiness their theme;And music wanders in the windThat lulls a morning dream.And there are angel voices heard,In childhood's frolic hours,When life is but an April dayOf sunshine and of showers.

2.

There's music in the forest-leavesWhen summer winds are there,And in the laugh of forest girlsThat braid their sunny hair.

The first wild-bird that drinks the dew,From violets of the spring,Has music in his song, and inThe fluttering of his wing.

3.

There's music in the dash of wavesWhen the swift bark cleaves their foam;There's music heard upon her deck,The mariner's song of home,When moon and star beams smiling meetAt midnight on the sea—And there is music—once a week—In Scudder's balcony.

4.

But the music of young thoughts too soonIs faint, and dies away,And from our morning dreams we wakeTo curse the coming day.And childhood's frolic hours are brief,And oft in after-yearsTheir memory comes to chill the heart,And dim the eye with tears.

5.

To-day the forest-leaves are green,They'll wither on the morrow,

And the maiden's laugh be changed ere longTo the widow's wail of sorrow.Come with the winter snows, and ask,Where are the forest birds?The answer is a silent one,More eloquent than words.

6.

The moonlight music of the wavesIn storms is heard no more,When the living lightning mocks the wreckAt midnight on the shore;And the mariner's song of home has ceased,His corse is on the sea—And music ceases when it rainsIn Scudder's balcony.